[Wizard's Thumb] I Know Nothing

[Hadrian]

63rd Spring, 512 A.V. "504 Anvil Way," Hadrian said to himself, staring up at the red stone of the building. He was beginning to get the hang of navigating the city, though he still sometimes brushed his fingers against a building when turning a corner, seeking impressions that filtered through his connection to Eyris, rarely getting anything definite, but a gradually filling sea of context for the place in which he found himself. That was how he had mastered auras, in the end. He wanted to know, and so he read the aura of every person he met, and now he added to his observations with holy psychometry. Some days his head felt like it might explode with knowledge, and those were the nights filled with the strangest of dreams. He wasn't a monk, but nobody had accosted him yet. Normally he kept his aura tamped down, mundane and uninteresting, but here he would be walking into the magical center of the city, and he needn't hide his magic. Well, not all of it. He didn't even glamour away the alterations to his hair and eyes that the wild djed had wrought, but came honestly. As he walked in, he began to pray, the first stanza aloud, and the rest in the silence of his mind as he took in the foyer: "Great is the wisdom of my Lady...!" Eyris All-Knowing, Your Wisdom includes An understanding of what is fair, What is logical, what is true, What is right, and what is lasting. It mirrors Your pure intellect! I entreat You to grant me such Wisdom, That my labours may reflect Your insight. Your Wisdom expands in Your creations, Displaying complexity and multiplicity. Your Wisdom is an eternity ahead of man. May Your wisdom flourish forever! His eyes caught the sign indicating which disciplines were studied on which floors, and there was only the Alchemy of which he had yet to practice. He had dabbled in others, was adept with Glyphs and Magecrafting. And they had an Archmage, too. The woman's name sounded familiar. Perhaps she was Syliran, a student of their past magecrafter, who had gone with Glav to Wind Reach if rumor were true. The last Archmage he had met was Zarik Mashaen himself, and how he wished he could have studied Animation under him. Perhaps one day... "Hello," he said politely to the person at the desk. "I am a visitor, originally from Syliras. Would it be possible for me to peruse your libraries, or is there some protocol for receiving permission?" It didn't hurt to be polite, and he was not trying to pull anything over on them, but he had noticed a rash of xenophobia in Nyka and did not want to upset anyone.

[Liar]

Syliras. The word breezed through the common room and stirred in a forest of faces, lifting ears but not quite turning heads. One woman laughed, oblivious. The man at the desk raised his eyebrows at Hadrian, noting his dress and appearance were neither monk’s nor a Nykan’s. “The protocol,” he explained, over the renewing murmur of the scholars behind him, “For thoroughly examining every page of every book in this place... has not yet been established. I would invite you to try, but I’m certain you would be disturbing someone in the process.” There was, in fact, no rule against a civilian or even a foreign traveler seeking knowledge in the Thumb’s bountiful tomes. But they are few who are not intimidated by the residing monks’ reclusive passion for the subject of world magic, and fewer who would stand their distaste for those outside their faction. The monk looked up at Hadrian with no more or less incredulity than he gave every other hopeful visitor, keen on leaving him empty-handed and empty-minded. But then there was a woman behind him, sudden and discreet. She laid a hand on the clerk’s shoulder to quiet him and resolved her curious eyes on Hadrian. The inelegant uniform she wore, the brown wool robes that matched the rest, seemed particularly plain beneath the poise in her neck and smile. She was one of very few who dared to wear the jewels for which her patron Celestial was celebrated, indulging in the slightest vanity by virtue of the tiny garnets that hung from her ears. They flailed delicately beside a small grin that spoke both of the superiority he had learned and the invitation he desired. Whereas Hadrian’s voice had developed some cosmopolitan quality over his various travels, hers retained the distinctive cadence of their home city, sinuous and strong. “Syliras, is it? No wonder you came here to learn. Perhaps I can be of service.” She paused to appreciate the irony, and the clerk tittered uncomfortably. “What is it you would like to read, stranger?”

[Hadrian]

His too bright eyes flickered to the shadow at the monk's shoulder that became a woman, his gaze measuring as it was with everyone and everything; some found this disconcerting, others rude, but he was merely curious and most often dispassionately so. It wasn't his fault people betimes riled under his gaze when he forgot his manners. His head canted to the side, ears cataloging dialect while he went over the magical properties of garnet from health benefits to energy and passion, business success and aid in fighting against depression. Certainly she seemed content enough, or perhaps amused by the current situation. He smiled a moment too late, and soldiered on. "Your service would be greatly appreciated, ma'am," he said properly if without knightly gallantry. "I wish to read everything, but I am afraid my ship leaves for the 80th. I am making my way back to Zeltiva, there perhaps to take up a position at the University. Where to begin might be the appropriate question, and I suppose it wouldn't hurt to start from the bottom up. "Summoning," he mused, half to himself. His summons were always heeded, mostly from Memosites, though there had been the trio of glassbeaks in Ravok, the which he had attempted to wreak havoc but could not stay to witness for fear of being captured again (?) and not catching up to Kendall and Ethan on the road to Avanthal But he was not learning fast enough for his own pleasure, often focusing too much on the forest to see the trees, and sometimes the opposite, not progressing for want of perfection likely impossible to attain. "Yes, Summoning, I suppose," he agreed with himself. Though he would have to pore over what tomes they might have about Magecrafting because he did intend to be the next Areesa Tallshade, but his view of magic was growing ever more holistic. And is that your wisdom, Bright Lady? he asked Eyris without speech.

[Liar]

The woman sighed, rounding the table to meet him properly on the other side. “The University,” she grumbled, and her disappointment was a flutter of eyelashes. “All those philosophers do down there is think, at the expense of their minds. You’ll learn more about living here, if you don’t die.” It was a harmless joke, but more real than the comfortable, foreign-born archmage had ever properly realized. She gave him a wink, then turned her eyes to the room and its inhabitants. The man she sought was standing behind her, peering at the two from afar before she finally found him and waved for him to join them. “The matters of other worlds have never amused me as much. Far too abstract, I think, and all but useless. But we’ve a jewel for every setting here. This is Marc,” she said as the man stopped beside her, nodding at the introduction. On the left side of his aging face, two straight-lined scars stretched from his lips to his ear, leaving his expression stiff and lopsided. He looked more at the woman than at their guest, clearly more interested in the opinion of the former. “He’s one of our astronomers, though he spends all his time underground.” A laugh. “Hello,” he mumbled impatiently, almost viciously. The clerk’s eyes rolled from Hadrian’s to the book before him, turning a page with a contemptuous hand. The summoner monk fidgeted, eyes drawn to the door that would take him downstairs. The woman who had greeted the visitor seemed unconcerned with either of them. “But you have to tell me of home. When was the last you saw it? Are those old knights bored of their dead god yet? Are they still affording shackles for every harmless explosion?”

[Hadrian]

"As you say, madame," he agreed amiably. He loved the University, but he had also left it for greater knowledge, perspective, and wisdom. He could see why some derided its scholars, as many of them had never left their ivory tower, not since arriving, and spent their time meditating upon their own intellects. It seemed a waste of time to him, too, though he saw the astronomy much as Dra-Seven had, as precise maps of distant fires, maps he had but to learn, and each fire a sun with worlds and untold treasures of knowledge. It didn't seem polite to argue. "Well met, Master Marc," he said with all due etiquette, and was then promptly ignored. There were books here, and his mind was greedy for knowledge, but she asked questions and he tried his best to answer them. "The Order maintains their peace with iron gauntlets, yes. They lost their Master Magecrafter to Wind Reach and imported a Symenestra professor from Zeltiva." One of his old teachers, in fact. "One can get things done there, though, if one knows who to talk to and how to ask. That's true anywhere, though, I suppose." The proof in the pudding was the woman herself, who had taken him past the gatekeeper, prevented Master Marc from evicting him or otherwise proving entirely unhelpful. "Mizahar is full of terrors; everyone keeps them at bay the best they know how."

[Liar]

“Of course,” she replied, sporting a candid frown that had grown on news from Syliras, and on the courteous eloquence of his response. Azura folded her arms in light-hearted contempt. “No true mage would stay there long. Let them keep their spiders. Am I right?” She laughed something throaty and forced. The clerk looked up to smile weakly, but the summoner only grimaced. Where before he had been tolerantly cold, a less than pleasant flame seemed to have ignited behind his eyes. His patience was wearing thin, his scarred face twisted toward the door. He took her breath as his cue. “Well, if you’ll excuse me...” She caught him by the arm before he could take the first step. “Oh, do stay,” she urged. He shrugged sharply from her grasp with a huff, but remained nonetheless. “The boy was just about to tell us all about the terrors of the world.” His glare softened as he looked at Hadrian, who would have appeared so Nykan if not for his birthplace. Their eyes met for an instant, but the unnerving blue chased him away; instead, he focused on the aura in his outline and pushed his djed on Hadrian’s own, if only to read it and discern a little more about the curious stranger. “Tell us what you’ve seen, and we’ll tell you if it hasn’t already been seen here,” Azura went on, relishing in the competition. After a few moments, the mage retreated from his silent investigation and resumed his fidgeting, suppressing a newfound interest as he regarded his superior again. “We don’t even know his name,” he grumbled, and there was almost a plea in his eyes.

[Hadrian]

"I have a rapport with the Order, due in large part to my father's auspices, I suppose, though I have done work for them, too. I will most likely have to return for business, but though my childhood there was hardly a nightmare, I doubt I will settle there again. Let Loren Dyres have his castle, and I'll bide where my studies take me." The terrors of the world. He had scraps of knowledge about Drainira from his time on Sahova, knew the devastation caused by the wild djed storm that spanned the continent so far as he could tell, murderous illusionists from Alavadas, the machinations of the Ebonstryfe. "The terrors," he said thoughtfully. "Avanthal melted despite the return of Queen Morwen. Their city walls, gone. Flooding, death. Even Morwen's palace was melting; in fact, it was the only thing still iced over when I left, though it perspired like a wrestler in the heat of battle." In fact, he had overgiven in his efforts to aid them, creating ice from his own soul for the ice reavers to manipulate up and down those walls, maintaining the goddess' sanctuary, though he didn't understand why she had not just remade things with her divine power. "In Mura they were prepared, I suppose thanks to their Lady Avalis and her warnings, but their trees drop poisonous fruit, their powers are now erratic, more flooding, and still some chaos. But I suppose there are silver linings. Having to wait for a ship to Zeltiva allows me to stay here for a time and learn from your library." He had not damped down his aura, not wanting to hide from these people. Their gods might see through in any case and the deception, though minor, might cause rage. One never knew with zealots. Nor had he darkened his eyes to their natural color, erased the dark blue streaks from his too dark hair. The djed had changed the face of the world again, and it had changed Hadrian too. "Hadrian Aelius," he supplied. "Originally of Syliras, now... well, a wanderer."

[Liar]

The woman pulled a hasty smile over a flash of a frown. Her city was certainly not immune to disasters such as those he described, and yet she seemed to have expected something far less tragic and much more exciting. Her eyes drifted from her latest hobby and fell on thoughts of the world’s anniversary, memories that made the dancing garnets beneath her ears pulse with secret blessings. But she did not stray for long. “And I am Azura Ilune, originally of Syliras,” she replied, offering an obligatory hand for shaking. “Now a Nykan. It’s a pleasure.” If there was ever any doubt of her complacency, she stifled it with string of breathless chatter. “We suffered a storm as well, and I think some of those healers from Mura stopped by to help. Luckily the Thumb was saved, and much of our blessed quarter. The city protects herself and her people. Much was rebuilt; you probably didn’t even notice we had been hit!” “Thank the Celestials.” Marc’s jaw was stiff as his said it, his fingers hesitant to loose from the fists at his sides. “I am needed below. Excuse me.” He managed to escape the archmage’s reflex, or at least she did not think to hold him again. He brushed past the visitor and headed for the door that had occupied his gaze for so many minutes. Azura seemed to have forgotten Hadrian’s original purpose. “He’s not,” she scoffed. “He’s just bored of stories from elsewhere. Everyone here is, but I’m beginning to guess why. Who makes walls from ice?”

[Hadrian]

"I gathered as much," he said, watching the deskman go. They had introduced themselves for his benefit, but Hadrian was generally beyond caring what people thought of him so long as his own curiosities could be appeased, his lust for knowledge assuaged. With knowledge and time for reflection, he hoped to transmute what he learned into true wisdom. The goddess had spoken to him after all, had blessed his ancestor's bequest if only he could get back to Zeltiva to claim it. His purposes were manifold, as varied as his thoughts. With regard to Summoning, he gathered knowledge from the Memosites of Swalden, avoided the poisonous life of Shoyden -- it seemed as though Mizahar had no great need for an influx of more poison -- and he knew the coordinates of Fyrden, but his attempts at communication with its denizens had proven fruitless. He had half a mind to seek a companion from Fyrden, and of course he hoped to calculate or find the coordinates of the sun Jaleri, or at least confirm its existence. Then he would have an offer the goddess of stars could not refuse, he thought. "The goddess of winter, of course. Anyway, I know my way around a library. If you've work to do, the barest hint of a tour will help me orient myself and then you needn't worry about me."

[Liar]

Azura’s eyebrows lifted incredulously, perked with sudden offense taken in the inevitable change of subject. She folded her arms and nodded toward the door on the far wall, behind her most fascinating guest. If Hadrian chanced to look back at it, he might notice the last of Marc the summoner disappearing behind it. “He can help you better than I could,” she explained. “Downstairs.” After a short stretch of steep, narrow steps, the summoning laboratory opened to the patient student with little ceremony. The place was clean enough, though the various desks and chairs afforded to each level had been long since pushed aside and blanketed in relevant books, scrolls, and notes. The largest desk, set to the opposite side, held a series of labeled keys; along the greater part of two walls rows of bookshelves stood behind protective glass, accessed through a number of locked doors. The floor beyond the cluttered foyer was smooth stone, complete with fragments of chalk and the markings it had made. The instant Hadrian walked through the threshold, Marc closed a door abruptly. It was not a glass one, but made of wood and embedded in the stone wall near the entrance, presumably a closet. The monk considered Hadrian a moment before he turned the lock and mumbled, “I thought she’d never let me go.” If there was any sympathy in the remark, it did not last long. He deposited the key on a nearby table and walked stiffly through the haphazard maze of them. Among the outlying furniture was a cleared chair beside a desk with an open book, one that seemed to be opened to precisely the page Marc intended to read. With his back to the Syliran, he mentioned, “Novice books are on your left. Keys A1 and A2.”